


Yuuri and the Beast

by katsukisan



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, That's right, a lot of swearing, hope I didn't butcher Russian folklore, mer!Victor, surprise: Victor swears
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9131758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsukisan/pseuds/katsukisan
Summary: Alternative title: a clumsy amalgamation of folklore and fantasy because why not have another way for Victor and Yuuri to meet than with a Russian parody of Beauty and the Beast?Victor Nikiforov was a famous ice skater, charming and overconfident. But after winning his fifth consecutive Gold in the ISU Grand Prix Finals, he disappears from the media. It’s been a year since then.“It’s not a prank, Victor Nikiforov, you who enjoys and inspires the world. But didn’t you feel like your imagination wasn’t enough anymore? That no matter what you achieved, nobody could be surprised anymore?” Victor’s eyes widened, stupefied.“Didn’t you feel… stagnant?”





	1. prologue.

In the dimmed wonderland of snow-bleached Russia, the kind, brash, and dichromatic sea of people ebb and flow within their cities. They congregate where warmth gathers, pendants against beating blood and hot air misting between teeth. The ones without an excuse to risk red-cheeked complexion settle in their homes, cradling their comforts within a sweater-clad embrace. Nobody looks to drive out, to risk discomfort without reward in wildest winter.

The story begins in a cold place. Far out of the way of society, with their raucous search for satiation and socialization, perhaps an hour’s drive out of the city of Sochi, granted there being no blizzards or snow-ins to hinder the drive. Upon reaching there after ploughing through the weather like cement through a straw, a concrete building stands unassuming at the end of a long road of weeds and permafrost. Nobody should be there; it looks like a graveyard of infrastructure. Warmth does not radiate; light does not shine through to signify human presence. But a man is probably blackout drunk somewhere on the second floor, windows shut and curtains drawn. Perhaps a murderer lurks in these halls, or little children are being recorded on a couch, clothed in but a worn fleece blanket. Perhaps they’re glassy-eyed as they stare into a camcorder, wishing their rising fan base a happy Christmas.

They shall have their own story.

Perhaps.

But this story takes us up the dusty steps, to the suite that consumes the top three floors of the cemented castle. This story focuses on the beast who wedges its magnificence within those walls, when it once shook the world into breathlessness with grace.

Yes; this story is about saving him.


	2. with a ping!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not even sure why I’m awake, because it also happens to be an ungodly hour in Thailand but- oh! I know why!” The sardonic tone delivers its punchline with zest, however laced it is with exhaustion: “It’s because my best friend’s gone nuts over a cold case! Yuuri, what the fuck”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're finally getting somewhere! also, I'm a slut for cliffhangers
> 
> (pls don't kinkshame me)
> 
> this work is unbeta'd, so please bear with me if you see any mistakes.
> 
> or call them out! either which is fine ^^

The land of the rising sun prides itself as one of the first countries to begin their day. The first to see daybreak, to feel the morning and reawaken to reality. The first to get through trivialities; getting ahead of the competition. Busybodies, bustling through life hours ahead of the world, pride and culture running through their veins as virile as lifeblood.

Oddly enough, nobody cares to call them the land of the setting sun. It’s not bad to be the first to appreciate the night sky, to leave work for home, to relax atop a futon after dinner. But everybody looks forward to beginnings before indulging in the middle; nobody wants to reach an ending.

The same applies to the lone figure sitting on the beach along the Hastes coastline, cradling a paperback in his arms, eyes reverent to the words scrawled on the pages the colour of buckwheat. In the heart of winter, his mousy, bedraggled hair is tucked under the toque his mother knitted, but he discarded his right hand’s glove in favour of touching the etchings as if they were a celebrated calligrapher’s magnum opus.

To him, they probably are.

The dust-coloured heavens have been rumbling its dissent for a while now, unnoticed by the Japanese man. All the stragglers from the office have long hurried home, the children already called back into the house by patronising elders. Eventually, the stratosphere begins to shudder with its burden, unable to wait for the catatonic human basking in a faraway idolisation.

It starts when a fat raindrop hits the opened page, and ink smudges. Jolted out of a reverie, the small man swivels his head to survey the sky, and to his rising panic, the clouds in the Eastern sky are dark, as if laden with dark graphite. He jumps to his feet in a rushed dash along the rapidly spotting stone sidewalk, and the world begins to roar and dull with the onslaught of sleet.

The journal is tucked into his coat pocket, and he clutches the lapels to his chest all the way to the closest shelter he could think of.

By the time he reaches the hot springs, his legs are numb and his lungs are filled with lead. Pushing the sliding doors aside, he wheezes an “I’m home” before doing his utter best not to collapse in the doorway.

A portly little lady with short, mousy locks peers through an open doorway, and sighs. “Welcome home, Yuuri! And where have you been? I was trying to call you, but you didn’t answer.”

He pauses through his dramatic crawl up the stairs. “Um, I might’ve forgotten my phone at home.” He hurries to tack a “Sorry, Mom” at the end.

“I was worried; you disappeared after lunch, and I wanted to know if you could buy some groceries for dinner tonight. What do you think of _nikujaga_?”

Her calm tone would have fooled anybody but Yuuri, and he can recognise when his mother is genuinely calm or admonishing him. “…sorry, Mom. I’ll go buy the groceries.”

“It’s alright; I sent Mari to do it. Why don’t you take a bath before dinner? Your hair is wet; you’ll catch a cold if you’re not warmed up quickly.” Yuuri smiles, though he shifts guiltily in his half-seat on the steps.

“Yes Mom.”

After a quiet night settled in front of the TV having dinner with his family, Yuuri Katsuki goes to his room and finds the coat he haphazardly tossed onto his desk before entering the baths. Pulling the journal out the coat pocket, he runs his fingers over the embossed **V** on the cover. His expressive eyes return to the downcast expression they’ve been sporting regularly for the past year, and he looks decades older than his age.

_Where are you?_

 

* * *

 

 

“Yuuri, this is unhealthy.” A tinny voice echoes throughout the bedroom, bouncing off the walls plastered with posters of ice skating. The bed lies unmade, as it has been for weeks, and the sun has two more hours before it needs to rise in Japan.

“I’m not even sure why I’m awake, because it also happens to be an ungodly hour in Thailand but- oh! I know why!” The sardonic tone delivers its punchline with zest, however laced it is with exhaustion: “It’s because my best friend’s gone nuts over a cold case! Yuuri, what the fuck”

The (so-called) best friend winces at the volume, hurrying to adjust the Skype settings. “Phichit, try not to yell; everybody’s sleeping over here.”

“Well, not you! And certainly, not me, _since I am worried for you_ , because you have serious raccoon eyes and on pale skin, that does _not_ look good!” Yuuri can’t help a small exhaled chuckle.

“Glad to know you find my sass entertaining,” Phichit snorts back.

Yuuri adjusts his desk lamp so that the yellow light doesn’t blind him, instead changing its focus onto the V-embossed notebook. He looks at the black leather spine of the notebook, admiring the silver letters adorning the space there in elegant cursive. It looked as if it had been painstakingly written to be more legible than the scraggly manuscript of the contents. His eyes crinkle at the thought.

“And glad to know you’re ignoring me,” his friend deadpans.

Yuuri startles. Then giggles, abashed.

“Sorry, Phichit.” He pauses. “I seem to be apologising to a lot of people these days.”

His Thai friend only huffs. “You’re lucky I’m not on crunch time with the Grand Prix over.

“More importantly! You should’ve been asleep hours ago! Me too! In fact, if I hear from Minako about your sleep deprivation, I will personally fly over to Japan to beat your sorry ass!”

Yuuri, embarrassed, puts his hands up in surrender. “Yes, yes.”

“Don’t placate me!” Phichit growls, irritable. He massages his temples, and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Yuuri… I’m worried. And if you can’t listen to your old rink mate about your health, then you can go ahead and get second opinions from your support system at home. You have people who love you, and they’re probably out of their minds, trying to figure out a way to get you out of your slump.”

The words, spoken weakly, make Yuuri pity himself again. His career in figure skater was spent as a wreck on ice, but without his idol to keep him afloat, he was better off living a life off the ice. And when shaken by the Thai male’s voice like a torrent of stinging sleet, Yuuri speaks, sombre.

“Phichit… I’ll go to sleep. But I won’t give up on looking for Victor Nikiforov.”

He ended the video call with Phichit’s crestfallen expression looking back at him.

“Never.”

 

* * *

 

 

While his figure sags deeply into the old bed with snores and drool abound, gold embraces his form as the sun’s rays grew in tremendous strength. Light pierces his curtain to overtake the desk lamp’s flickering bulb, and the open laptop, like a toaster with a slow burn, finally announces change with a _ping!_


	3. stir.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A one-way ticket to Sochi, Russia is booked in record time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's have something fluffy! And small but really terrifyingly cool!
> 
> Yes!!! Let's have Yuri!!!!!
> 
> Also, some math: 5pm + 10hr = 3am JP time = 9pm RU(Sochi) time  
> (I presumed it took 10 hours, but then again I'm not familiar with Aeroflot's flight plans. Sorry.)

A one-way ticket to Sochi, Russia is booked in record time.

And one Yuuri Katsuki packs his bag with a madman’s fervour, making sure to include his travel guide, skates, and that journal. His mom makes sure he packs enough clothes to survive a heavy, ten-day blizzard, and his father makes him check his passport and visa validity, alongside some instant ramen packets. His wife offers a questioning look, to which he replies “in case he loses patience with ordering food in Russia”.

Mari simply remarks, “Oh wow, brother. Buy some vodka on your way back.”

It’s Yuuko who, upon policing her three devious girls (“Hey, Yuuri! Take pictures for us!” “It’s gotta be about ice skating, of course!”), gives Yuuri an indecipherable expression after driving him to the airport. Her husband stays in the car with their kids, leaving her to talk to Yuuri alone.

Her stare is hard, and the Japanese man is surprised to be intimidated by his own childhood friend. There are more people arriving than departing at the airport, as the late afternoon sun bathes the whole terminal in molten, dust-filled amber. It’s a second of eternity, and the constants of separations and reunions is forever trapped in an alternate reality that only the two remember.

“You’ll take care of yourself.”

Yuuri blinks. Once.

Twice.

“You’ll sleep alright, contact us regularly, and get to ice skating again. Call me when you reach, call me when you get a place to stay, when you get dinner. Call me if you need help. Or if you ever, _ever_ feel like talking. Just… _call me, okay_?” The tirade is shrill and loud, like the trill of a stressed sparrow.

After a long time of doubting his decision to leave the ice, Yuuri flushes, reassured. “I… I will, Yuuko.”

And with that, she gives the softest smile he’s ever had the pleasure of knowing, and hugs him tightly.

 

* * *

 

 

 _I hope I can find her in the crowd_ , Yuuri thinks, as he pulls his suitcase with him to the terminal, where he is expecting- “Miss Babicheva! I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

A tall Russian woman strides over to shake Yuuri’s hand with such vigour that Yuuri winces. “Call me Mila! And sorry, I don’t know my own strength sometimes. I am also excited to see you face to face, Yuuri. Sara has good taste in friends, after all!” She looks him up and down, unabashed and smile bright, eyes zeroing on the midsection.

“I’m a little surprised at your shape, though.”

Deciding to ignore Yuuri’s flustered reaction, she takes the suitcase from his hand with ease, grinning as the older man follows her step wordlessly.

“How was it, getting to Sochi? Did Aeroflot treat you well? You’re lucky you reached by 9pm, you know.”

They continue a pleasant conversation concerning international travel, in which the redheaded woman manoeuvres through the masses as effortlessly as a hot knife through butter, and Yuuri need only follow her bouncing curls as she cut out a clear path for him.

By the time they reach the pickup-drop off in front of the airport, Mila stuns the smaller man when she grabs his hand and leans in close, urgent. “I forgot to tell you- “

“Oi, _Grandma_!” somebody grumbles. Mila looks up as if rolling her eyes and questioning the heavens at the same time. “Yes, Yurachka?”

The voice belongs to a boy, probably 13 years old, lounging in the backseat of a pickup, Yuuri finds.

_Ah. Isn’t he the winner of this year’s GP?_

The blond meets eyes with Yuuri, and he snarls. “Why weren’t you at the Grand Prix, fatso?”

Yuuri blanches, “U-uh…”

“Let’s talk about this in the car!” Mila interjects.

When Mila is done packing the bags into the backseat and trunk, the slight blond had already gone to claim his dominance over shotgun. Yuuri settles in the back while Mila takes the car and with a long-suffering sigh, shifts gears and starts to drive.

Yuuri, suffering from a jetlagged body thinking it’s only three in the morning, silently passes out from the exhaustion of air travel.

Nobody in the front mentions anything.

 

* * *

 

A modest little flat does not stand out within its nondescript apartment building, much like the rest of the neighbourhood. Grey slabs defined only by slight masonry, it was clear that the infrastructure was made to satiate the quantity over quality. It suits the darkened winter, as the relentless snow suggested a bleached Christmas. It is already the wee hours of night, and only lone howls of drunken mistakes attempt to overtake the chilling silence in this area. Everybody is either asleep, or deep in thought.

The inside of the little flat has one in the earlier, and two in the latter. Yuuri Katsuki lies in a room lit solely by a dying gas lamp, dead asleep even when the Russian female ice skater lifted him into the spare bedroom of the Plisetsky household. The boy, who won Gold for his senior debut in the ISU Grand Prix Final, whispers in hushed Russian, aquamarine eyes glinting and hands animated. He jabs a finger at the door, hissing, “Are you seriously asking me to stage something that crazy?”

The other inhabitant of the flat attempts nonchalance in a gruff voice. “Well, it’s no big deal; we can afford the damages now.” He chuckles, before petting the boy’s hair. “I always knew you could do it, Yurachka.”

At the praise, the teenager attempts to hide his satisfaction, only to fail miserably. As his grandson preens, Nikolai stands up, and stretches, hands on his back as he groans. “How about some pirozhki before bed? I’m trying new fillings, so you should try some, Yurio.”

Yuri Plisetsky groans as best he can through his excitement. “You know I hate that nickname…” he huffs.

All his grandfather does is release a full-blown laugh.

The Yuuri in the room next to them does not stir.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm currently trying to make a decision by Wednesday about whether or not I should reveal everything to you guys in a future 'flashback' chapter, or have it set in a parallel fic.
> 
> Future chapter = readers know everything, but the story doesn't change.
> 
> Side fic = more mystery for you, and I'll be writing more from a new perspective.
> 
> I'll listen if anybody wants to put their two cents in ^^ (translation: I love comments!)
> 
> PS- thanks to everybody who checked in, left a kudos, or better yet left a comment. You're all really nice <3
> 
> PPS-And yes, Mila and Sara have a thing, but you can interpret that however you want.
> 
> The main takeaway is that's how Yuuri and Mila got in contact with each other. Yep... :)


	4. cold arms.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hears the crash keenly, sitting at the edge of the roof's ledge with mouth agape at the spectacle below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is short, I'm so sorry I failed you
> 
> excuses include: jobs, exams to study for, love life is miserable, the usual.
> 
> orz

In the place before the story, a wonderful white Russia lies tranquil in the night, the fluttering snowfall blanketing the land untouched by life. This is the peace closest to sleeping in a graveyard, to being forgotten in a game of hide and seek. Black tendrils would creep into the corners of your vision, pleading for the permission to consume you, and you would feel it make your entire spine prickle, scalp tensing from the petrifying anticipation. If you are weak, then you will be the first to fall victim to an abysmal mire of fertile soil, hoping to absorb your bones before you can scream.

But in a car tearing along the icy dirt path like an offensive bike horn at a funeral, you could evade the darkness. And in an early night time, Yuri held his grandfather’s fresh piroshkies out in a peace offering. Nikolai, as the most experienced with his treasured teal Moskvich 407, pushed the gas pedal while whispering sweet nothings to the squealing dashboard. Mila did not come with.

Perhaps it was a chain of bad decisions that lead to the accident. A chance disaster shaped like destiny as the car slipped over some frozen puddle, the brakes too slick, and the hulking body of overheated metal flipped with the help of an aberrant boulder.

Yuuri, feeling a sharp pain in his ankle and disoriented over the displacement of gravity, blacked out before he could unbuckle his seatbelt and touch the earth again.

 

* * *

 

It hears the crash keenly, sitting at the edge of the roof's ledge with mouth agape at the spectacle below. Within seconds, it forces itself out of shock to run down. A pristine cloak is snatched and the muscled feet bound down the flights of stairs, only to find one single man laid near the site of the wreckage.

With nervous hands, it sees there is blood, but marvels at the slight male’s calm face. Despite the eye bags casting a worn shadow, the creature studies the subtle curve of the cheek, straight nose and long, long eyelashes. Something throbs, and it gingerly carries the human, with head cradled against its breast.

Gentle as a mother carrying a fussy baby to their cradle, it coos and tries its best to comfort the slightly squirming man with cold arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on a happier note, the next chapter ate around five pages, and guess what? it's the chapter with more supernatural elements, and a lot of fun.
> 
> and the mystery killer will be published in a separate story as a sister fic to this one. Settled!


	5. beginning.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hello, Katsuki Yuuri.”
> 
> So, the Rusalka speaks.

Snow continues to fall under the sun, soundless.

It is a symphony, a constant lull of comfort, waves breaking before crashing, unfettered by the breeze as it falls like icing sugar atop the complex.

An occasional east wind ushers the flakes into the open window, but the chill is not felt in the wide room. The Persian carpets long rolled-up, trails of water can be seen slowly drying on the stone floor. A fireplace crackles merrily opposite the canopy bed draped in maroon velvet, as one lone figure wrapped in a thick duvet stirs.

Yuuri wakes up. His legs are hard to tangle out of the sheets, and he finds it hard to open his eyes fully. While rubbing them with one arm, he feels around for his glasses, only to find none on the bedside table to his right. Rather, he feels goosebumps rise when his naked shoulders are exposed to the cold air.

“Hello, Katsuki Yuuri.”

The Japanese man yelps, shaken awake by the strangely warm, masculine voice. “Who is it?”

He squints, but only sees a white figure near the open window to his left, presumably sitting on the window seat. There is no defining feature, just a sheet of glistening white that shimmers as it turns to look at Yuuri. The reflective light it casts across the room feels gentle, though the universe surrounding the form distorts slightly, as if challenging the fabric of visible reality. Yuuri blinks, unsettled. “I think you should be asking more important questions. Like, where are you?”

Yuuri has no time to speak before the other continues in a talkative monologue. “Well, you’re here. Here is the middle of Russia, and per my calendar, it’s only a week left until my birthday. Would you like to give me birthday wishes?” The vibrant tone sounds bouncy, invigorated at the thought. “I’d be so happy if that were the case.”

“N-no,” sputters Yuuri. “I’m looking for somebody. He’s been missing for months now, and I had a lead to where he is. Just…” huff.

“You might not know him, but does the name Victor Nikiforov ring a bell to you?”

Unbeknownst to the normally bespectacled man, the other flinches at the name.

“Ah.” The white mass clears their throat. “I haven’t heard that name in months. I’m afraid I do know him.”

“You do?” the space hums.

“Well, he’s Russia’s greatest ice skater, is he not?”

“…yes.”

“I don’t know him. But I found you in front of my house, all the way in the ‘backwoods’ outside of Sochi. What brings you all the way here?”

Yuuri blinks, and attempts to straighten up.

Only to emit a keen, eyes watering as a sharp twinge makes itself known in his ankle.

The white figure stands abruptly. “Yuuri!” Through his wet eyes, he can see the mass of pearls hurry over to him, bare feet slapping the stone floor.

“Don’t move; you have a fractured ankle joint, and I can see signs of a stress fracture in your other ankle. As a professional ice skater, you should take care of yourself better!” Pale hands peel off the various layers of sheets and duvet from the foot of the bed, revealing small feet, clumsily bandaged.

“Ahh,” Yuuri hisses, teeth chattering. The other person’s hands are cold as stone, and slightly wet to the touch, as if they just washed their hands. “You’re freezing!”

“Sorry Yuuri.” The hands don’t stop in checking the bandages. The bedridden man feels himself flush at the close inspection, until he realises something.

“…and how do you know my name?” the tone sounds accusatory, and the hands stop, as the figure looks up to Yuuri. Well, Yuuri thinks the figure is looking up to Yuuri; the sunlight coming in reflects off the white body, making it difficult to see anything other than a dazzling body of light.

It takes a moment.

“I checked your wallet, sorry,” the absence laughs, and it’s with a boisterous laugh, a little forced. “Couldn’t take care of a stranger in my house if I didn’t at least get some information about you. Like, name, or any medical cards if you had an allergy to peanuts or something.”

“Are you feeding me peanuts?”

“No! Just making sure,” the blob giggles nervously. Yuuri holds back a smile.

They remain in comfortable silence until the tall figure straightens, hair shimmering down the back. “Well, since you’re awake, I can finally feed you! You’ve been asleep for two days.”

“Wait, really?” Yuuri yelps.

They respond with a sigh. “That’s a fair amount considering your lack of sleep, and injuries sustained from… whatever brought you here. You had no signs of a concussion when I woke you up previously, though that lack of memory concerns me… maybe you were too tired to remember…” the rambling turns to mumbling, and Yuuri feels the need to remind the other that they were having a conversation.

“How do you know? Do you have medical knowledge?”

“-Ah! Um, well I have the internet, and personal experience.” The figure makes a big show of looking down at their wrist, though Yuuri is certain that there isn’t a watch there. He might see the world in blurs, but he _can_ see colours. “Look at the time! I should get you some food, what would you like?”

“Personal experience doing what?” the spotless existence stands to stroll briskly out the room, glimpsing at the fireplace. “I’ll get more kindling as well; winters here are quite brutal, and I feel a storm coming!”

“Hey!” it finally stops, and Yuuri feels so relieved that his chest aches.

“A-at least, come back. And tell me your name!”

The blur turned to look properly at him, fingers wriggling in distress. “…I don’t have a name.”

“Why?”

“That’s something I can’t say.” They shrug, chest rising and falling, more than it should. “But don’t worry! I’ll come back, promise.” The warmth of the statement makes Yuuri realise he stopped breathing, and he slowly takes new breathes, eyebrows knitting together as he gives a faltering smile.

“Then what should I call you?”

Iridescent strands of silver float about the creature’s face, contemplative. They hadn’t thought to make up a name before, but the lie constructed can no longer be withdrawn.

“Well, my acquaintances know me as the Русалка (Rusalka).”

Yuuri lets the name roll around his tongue, rubbing against his teeth like a pound of mild sugar, melting slowly. By the time he stops looking at his hands, the strange blur of light already left.

With his bedridden state and hunger slowly overtaking him, he lies down and sleeps blissfully under the heavy down, finding comfort in the fact that he found himself with a mysterious, yet strangely benign caretaker.

By the time the creature returns with a clay bowl of steaming porridge, jittery though its hands remain steadfast, it finds the human comfortably asleep again with a slight snore.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri wakes next to a covered bowl, and a diminutive old man reading Russian out loud from an old tome in his lap. He squeaks, to realise the sheets were stripped off him, and he has been laid bare, in only boxer shorts.

“Don’t worry; the windows are closed. And the fireplace is hot!” The Russian man closes the book shut, then tries to wave away the resulting plumes of dust. He stands to put the book down before saying, “Zdravstvujtye! I am Doctor Alexei.”

Yuuri nods profusely, unable to bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Doctor! I am Katsuki Yuuri. And thank you for overlooking me, I imagine it was a long drive to reach here. Thank you!”

“On the contrary, Mr Katsuki, it was me who drove.” Yuuri turns to see two figures appear, one clad in distinct black and the other a dazzling white.

“Ah. Thank you, Mr...?”

“Mikhail would be alright, Katsuki. I hear you ended up in front of my… associate’s apartment, injured in the middle of winter. Fortunately, the good doctor here determined that you only need more bedrest alongside some regular exercise to prevent your ice skating muscles from atrophy.”

“How did you know I- “

“I knew.” Yuuri tries to share eye contact with the now-familiar timbre.

“Ru…salka?” The other two Russians stare at the inverted silhouette. They smile, bubbly. “Yes! That’s me, Rusalka! And I knew because I worked at an ice skating rink in Russia. Was overseeing as part of my work in physiotherapy.”

After a beat of silence, the bedridden man nods. “Okay.”

“…okay!” The dark outline- Mikhail- bursts into the warm quiet, with a chuckle that feels awkward and misplaced. “I think I will take the doctor home with me. It may be late, but we should be fine if we drive swiftly and carefully.”

“Yes, go away Mishka~!” The white form cut in, almost threateningly jovial.

“You…” Yuuri starts to wonder if this is the usual between the two visual opposites at the door, feeling his head go heavy with the unnecessary drama.

“This is normal, unfortunately,” the doctor answers.

“Well, you have nothing to fear, Yuuri. Our Rusalka- _hah!_ – is a reliable man with as attractive a personality as his hair is lustrous, promise.”

“Mikhail!” The white figure snaps before the two exchange scathing remarks in Russian.

Meanwhile, Doctor Alexei turned to the bedridden man, bowing politely. “I have my fair share of international patients, so allow me to give you my business card should you need to contact me.”

Flushing, Yuuri takes the card with a silent admiration. He leans as forward as he could in reciprocation.

“Also, I have already given the medicine you need to the Rusalka over there. There is a week’s worth of pills that look like pearls- those are diuretics, since your blood pressure’s a little high and that’ll ease off any headaches you get. Take one every day until your vision improves, and we will send you a pair of replacement glasses since your own pair is not with you.” At the deadpan stare, he explains, hesitant. “You have the information in your wallet, apparently.”

“…”

“I- I didn’t take it! Your caretaker over there told me.” He sighs, a little exasperated. “Anyways, a sleeping draught should be taken before bed. The Rusalka says he will oversee your skating training, so I’ve also prescribed a month’s worth of painkillers. If you are in pain, take it! But you should only take four a day, since it’s Ibuprofen.”

“Thank you.” They shake hands, and the good doctor walks over to Mikhail, before proceeding to drag him out of the room. “We’ll be taking our leave now.”

“Bye!” from the wriggling dark man is the last thing the two hear before a heavy door can be heard swinging shut.

With the two left in the room, Yuuri isn’t sure what to say.

So, the Rusalka speaks.

“I’m sure you’ve had a long day. Any questions before I leave, Yuuri?”

The Japanese man startles, then furrows his eyebrows in thought. “Can I see the medicine Doctor Alexei left for me? I don’t need the painkiller, but could you please pass me the diuretics and sleeping medicine?”

The other ‘man’ stares blankly. “Diuretics?”

“Um, he said they looked like pearls.” It’s a little strange the doctor didn’t say what they were.

The white figure stood silently, then hummed. “Of course! The diuretics.” Hurrying out the room, Yuuri could hear small chinking of glass and various other noises, and felt strangely warm at the domestic atmosphere.

Though he has a loving family back in Japan, with a doting mother who would offer a hearty serving of katsudon no matter the reason or season, Yuuri hadn’t been coddled like this in years. The last time he could remember was as a middle schooler, when his fever was high enough to make him delirious and bedridden for a whole week. The other times he fell ill or injured, he’d be far from home with a minor skating-related injury, and never ill enough to need Phichit to do anything other than bringing over some medicine and groceries before playing a couple rounds of Mario Kart with him for a day.

Yuuri Katsuki decides to turn, careful with his sore body, before giving the pillow under him a good wringing and reshaping to better fit his head. Lying down, he pulls the discarded bedsheets over him, shivering in the cold bedding before it gradually adopts his body heat.

Then the shining man walks back into the room, carefully balancing another clay bowl and ceramic cup in his hands. “Yuuri, you haven’t eaten all day, I’m sure you must be famished!” Placing the fine china and clay bowl next to the one covered in a cloth, he picks up the other clay bowl before throwing a “I’ll get the medicine once you’re done!” over his shoulder.

Yuuri watches the radiant figure with bemusement. _How domestic._

He’s gladly wolfing down the clay bowl’s contents by the time the Rusalka returns with a small dish with a pill, and two tall glasses, one of water. When he takes a swig of water in a mid-meal breather, he stops to speak.

“Rusalka.” The other man in the room, who was reading a book under the moonlight, shifts to show he is listening. “Yes?”

“Are you always… like… that with Mikhail?”

At this, the white blob takes a moment. “Well, I know him well due to my current situation. You see, he is the one providing me absolute solitude this far out in a seedy-looking apartment in Sochi.”

He giggles. “You look like this is a suspicious story, but my only explanation is that I needed the time to write my book, and that means no distractions.”

A tingling sensation ghosts at the back of Yuuri’s neck. But he tries to ignore it. He succeeds as he finishes the rapidly cooling porridge, and continues to successfully ignore it while he scrutinises the round bead. He swallows the pill with the glass of sleeping draught. It tastes of herbal contents, dashed with a natural sweetener. _It tastes reminiscent of sugar cane_ , the man thinks.

“Finished? It’s a shame you didn’t touch the tea I made, but then again, chamomile tea isn’t as effective as Doctor Alexei’s sleeping potion.” The white figure puts down the book, and resigns himself to silence. Yuuri feels a touch of insecurity at the thought that maybe the Rusalka was staring at him.

“Did you eat dinner, Rusalka?” The other, about the speak, hesitates, as if stifling a truth from escaping.

“Yes!”

It escapes the injured man. Feeling himself grow sleepy, Yuuri puts all his effort into fighting a losing battle and asks one last question, an itching curiosity.

“Mikhail and the doctor acted strangely when I called you Rusalka, as if it wasn’t your name.”

The blurred form, doused in silver as it sits near the window ledge, purrs contemplatively. “Well, my real name is embarrassing, so you can just call me Русалка (Rusalka).”

And when Yuuri finally closes his eyes to let the night consume him, the pale being mutely tiptoes over, whispering “Good night, Yuuri,” before beginning to pick up the empty bowl, glasses, and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad news; I've caught up, and need time to write the rest of the story.
> 
> Translation: chapters no longer come out everyday.
> 
> Good news: not a hiatus. We'll still get a new chapter every few days! <3


	6. play.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He comes close enough to touch, close enough to see the individual eyelashes of the other man and wondering why the face looks so familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy a product of my stress-writing! I'm a slut for fluff.

Yuuri wakes up to a sky the colour of Prussian blue, and watches his breath leave his lips like a humidifier into the starch air. The curtains are drawn; the thick damask rose revealing a sheer lace that offers the illusion of snow, stopped in time. But the sun rises, as it should, and the eventual leading rays of light threaten to blind him.

“A window view with perfect exposure to the sun means lower electricity bill, but if it hurts your eyes, I can shut them.”

As the pale figure walks in with a tray smelling of softened dough and orange juice, Yuuri smiles politely. “Please.”

Placing the tray on the bedside, the figure is now clearly defined by the blue outlining its body. “What are you wearing?” Yuuri asks, finding his lips loose upon waking up snug.

“Oh, one of my many robes. Ever since Mikhail recommended them, I rarely wear anything else at home! Too comfortable,” Yuuri can finally see the figure properly, as if a glamour from yesterday had left the form of the Rusalka. From this close, human details finally come into view, starting with blue. His hair was tucked into a non-committal low ponytail, and dashes of colour could be seen on the tips of his ears, and those lips. Such soft lips, slightly whet as if licked. Lips curled into a mischievous smile.

A chuckle is exhaled, and it makes the base of Yuuri’s spine tingle deliciously. “I’m sure you must find my hair very nice, but it’s not too rare to find long hair in Russia. Maybe not on men, but this colour can be found with a little luck.”

Yuuri can’t stop himself from squeaking in embarrassment, whipping his head to stare hard at his breakfast as if to wipe the evidence of the past ten seconds away. The Rusalka takes a soft, doughy pancake from the pile on the plate, before proceeding to walk out the room.

“Wait.” And he waits.

“Help me up. Please, Rusalka?”

“Yuuri.” The voice figure turns, with a swallow. “I’m not sure Doctor Alexei- “

“I’ll get bed sores! And since I’m your guest, you have to treat me well.” The statement was posed like a trembling challenge by the Japanese man, unsure if he could push such boundaries.

The Russian seems to accept, with a grunt and a “only until the dining table, so you can do breakfast.” With a precursory glance at the insides of a side door Yuuri originally thought was an attached bathroom, a dark walking stick made of petrified wood was offered to the bedridden man.

“Unless you want me to carry you?”

“No!”

Some other items were tossed to the bed, a white tunic embroidered in red with dark grey slacks.

“Do you want me to change you, Yuuri?”

“ _No_!”

 

* * *

 

 

With the Rusalka carrying the rapidly cooling breakfast tray and Yuuri following with a severe limp, they reach past a grand foyer with a charcoal grey theme. Regal reds and purples flare briefly in the corner of Yuuri’s eyes, and he can feel the stone below him is polished flat.

And while the kitchen is far too large for one person, it feels like a refreshing ice pack in comparison to the bedroom; the interior design is far more minimalist than the foyer they passed through, smooth dark marble topping the kitchen counter and large oval table next to it. The Rusalka, however, puts the tray of food on the island counter, next to a rather cluttered array of cooking paraphernalia. Yuuri can smell a hint of burnt failures, feeling his eyes crinkle in amusement.

“Sorry for the mess; I usually just stick to the standard toast and boiled eggs when I’m alone.” Yuuri is tempted to say _You didn’t have to go through the effort_ , but thought better as the pale Rusalka dumps everything into the sink before grabbing an identical (though slightly burnt) plate of doughy mistakes and diving into the joys of cottage cheese _syrniki_.

“Uwah! Still yummy though.” And when Yuuri asks for more jam, he glows.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the morning is spent in a pleasant haze, as Yuuri demands the Rusalka take him on a tour around the house. There is first the insistence to wash dishes, but with a whistle and a call, Yuuri hears a bark and the sounds of happy panting.

From the foyer, Yuuri sees a big mass of brown come bounding to him, immediately causing the young man to yelp as he falls off the bar stool.

“Makkachin!” With a gentle reprimand, the dog- which Yuuri recognises as a poodle- barks softly before licking the smaller man’s face. It brings up a flood of precious memories with Vicchan, to which Yuuri cannot help but to blurt out, “Victor?”

A dish is dropped, but only a clatter is heard. “Eh.”

“Oh?” An awkward silence ensues, but Yuuri sputters in a hope to save his fumble, “I’m so sorry! Your dog just reminds me of my own Victor.”

“Victor?” Yuuri flushes.

“Y-yeah. He was a toy poodle, though!”

“…if you don’t mind me asking, is the namesake Victor Nikiforov?”

Yuuri desperately wonders if the dark stone floor below him can swallow him whole. He freezes, mortified. Nobody else knew about the namesake save for his childhood friend Yuuko and his family. After a minute of playing dead, with the poodle trying to coax him back to life with tentative licks, he should face the facts.

“Yes.”

And the Rusalka _laughs_.

And Yuuri should be embarrassed, further traumatised as a person makes fun of his pet dog’s name, but it’s a beautiful, benevolent laugh, a laugh that’s been dying to make an appearance.

It’s a laugh, an uncontrollable type of laugh that takes the whole body. Chortles freely flowing as they make the rest of the room echo in mirth. Even the dog barks twice in agreed sentiment, before Yuuri joins in as well, swept into his charming song. It ends, as it should, with rebellious little outbursts of giggles.

Yuuri can hear the Rusalka put the dishes away, before the soft _pat pat_ of hands on a dish towel follow. “You’re gonna be surprised, but this dog’s named Makkachin.”

Eyes widening, he blurts out, “What, like Victor’s dog?”

The other snorts, as if trying to hold in another fit of laughter. “Well, he got passed around and eventually came to me. But no worries! I’m used to Nikiforov’s dog; Makkachin’s a sweet one. Likes to follow me when I go hunting at night.”

“Hunting?” The conversation plays out like a chat between old friends, Yuuri resettling himself on the floor to pet Makkachin, who’d taken a genuine liking to the Japanese man. The Rusalka watches the exchange fondly, and thinks, _How perfect_.

 

* * *

 

The Rusalka eventually deems the kitchen to be spic and span before the two men and dog go on a casual expedition around the multi-level flat. From up the alabaster stairs to a library, a parlour loaded with various games, and a small cinema, Yuuri is drooling. “Look at this! Do you have the Godfather?”

With Yuuri’s enthusiasm infectious enough to affect anybody within a three-kilometre radius, the Rusalka can’t help himself and feels a reinvigorated joy, joined by Makkachin. “Yes! Of course I do! I bought all three films in a DVD bundle. The shop owner gave me a complimentary poster, which I put right there-”

“Oh my gosh!!!”

“I also have all of the Jurassic Park films, Star Wars, and of course anything about the Grand Prix!”

“What would you say to a movie marathon sometime?”

“Yes!”

It is a similar dialogue when they enter the parlour (“A figure skating edition of Guess Who? We’re also doing that!”) and the library (“It’s multi-level too?” “Yep! You can access it from your floor and the rooftop~!” “Gosh I’m jealous!”), in which Yuuri spends some time perusing the books to look for a few to take to his bed tonight. The Rusalka spends his time at the desk piled with papers and books, Makkachin’s head on his lap as he peruses a book.

The sun comes through from the skylight, beating down on the dusty glass shelves by the time Yuuri finally escapes the tantalising pull of dancing literature and Russian culture textbooks. He relishes in the silence as he leans heavily on the rolling cart loaded with books to the centre of the hall.

“Ru-” Before he can finish his sentence, he spots a pool of silver atop a desk. A brown mop of hair he correctly identifies as Makkachin is snoring peacefully atop the silver spilled on the floor. It’s a lot longer than Yuuri expected, and as it glimmers, he restrains himself as best he could to not touch it.

 _Don’t be rude, Katsuki Yuuri._ He edges closer, and neither master nor pet stir.

_Just don’t._

He comes close enough to touch, close enough to see the individual eyelashes of the other man and wondering why the face looks so familiar.

His hand rises, so _tempted_.

But he sees a bright splash of aged colour underneath the slumbering beauty’s arm, opened to a page where a castle is painted with the sky dyed in twilight. Instead of birds, women with tails flitted through the castle’s windows. On the page, a distinct addition was doodled onto the painting with scratchy black pen: one woman embraces a star, eyes clenched tight as if to make a wish.

The picture strikes something in his heart, but before he can think to learn more, the Rusalka mumbles. Yuuri leaps almost a meter away, as if worried he’ll be caught for pondering a coloured page.

But the alabaster man simple rubs his eyes, head raising as he swallows with heavy eyes.

Makkachin is already awake.

“Is it lunch time already?”

Yuuri omits a truth.

“A-ah, yes!”

The sun, beating proudly through the middle of the day, secludes itself behind a passing cloud.

 

* * *

 

 

After a lunch drawn out by the Rusalka’s impressive knowledge about the scoring system in figure skating, all through which Yuuri nodded and interjected with supportive elaborations, Makkachin walks off with a soft bark to the Rusalka before leaving.

At Yuuri’s curious glance, he explains, “Makkachin’s off to take a nap. But we can go through that movie marathon if you want.”

With an eager assent, the Rusalka puts the dishes away and pulls out a paper bag of microwaveable popcorn kernels. “I keep a good stash of snacks for my movie nights,” he exclaims with a dash of pride, chest puffing.

With a bowl of popcorn and two cups of soda between them, the two make it (“Slowly, Yuuri! No need to aggravate your injuries.” “Yes. Don’t drop the popcorn, then.”) up the winding staircase to the theatre room.

Only for Yuuri to notice something.

“Rusalka, you didn’t show me that door.” The Russian only gives a too-casual glance, gently opening the door to the movie room with his elbow.

“Oh, that’s just my room.” It feels like the discussion is closed from that statement, somehow produced with a nonchalant finality Yuuri is a little scared to disobey. But he shakes off intuition to help the other in, before they settle for the first part of the Godfather series.

Partway into the first movie, Makkachin appears at Yuuri’s side, plopping down to rest his head on the man’s lap before falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

By the time the second movie ends, neither of them are satisfied with movie snacks anymore.

In a daze, both lie, staring at the end credits, before the Rusalka decides to say it. “Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

So they pad down, drowsy but cautious, back to the kitchen, with Makkachin leading the way. The pale form insists upon holding Yuuri’s hand, though he politely refuses at least three times. Despite the cold effusing into Yuuri’s fingers, his chest beats wildly and he pays critical attention should he lose footing.

This time, Yuuri is seated at the dining table, its marvellous bottle-green tinge giving a classed appearance. Makkachin is busy eating from a previously set bowl of dog food. “You know, a lot of your furniture seems very- “

“Antiquated? Heavy?”

“Yes. But I like it.”

“Well, you’ll have to thank Mikhail’s interior designing skills. Or whoever who furnished this place. Mikhail left my apartment untouched, save for the things I requested he bring here.”

 _This is mysterious_ , Yuuri thinks, but he strives to school in his curiosity.

“Your apartment sounds far.”

“Well, it does take a day and five hours on train to get to St. Petersburg.”

The enticing smell of something earthy dances in the room, making Yuuri drool a little.

“St. Petersburg? That’s where Victor Nikiforov and Yuri Plisetsky skate.”

The white figure walks out, wearing an apron littered with toy poodles, to Yuuri’s amusement. “Yep. I had the opportunity to work alongside them at Coach Yakov’s home rink. His ex-wife sometimes makes an appearance, and she looks rather scary!”

A huge bowl of thick broth, textured with vegetables is set atop the placemat before Yuuri. “This is borscht, made with meat, beets, and a couple other things. My favourite broth in Russia!”

Yuuri’s eyes glitter in pleasure. “I’ve had it before in Sochi last year; it’s a very filling soup!”

“Ah, for the GPF right? Your step sequence was good.”

A cold trickle of water seems to run down Yuuri’s back, as he remembers his failure. “But I was sixth place.”

The Rusalka returns from the kitchen with his own bowl of soup, and a plate loaded with toasted garlic bread. “It wasn’t because of your lack of skill, though I can definitely see areas of improvement in your quads. So, what was it?”

The question hangs in the air, posing like a jeopardy bonus above the Rusalka’s head, which is tilted sideways, playful and perhaps a little too pushy for Yuuri’s usual. “Vicchan died.”

If any music had been playing (maybe Erik Satie’s “furniture music” would have been nice, Yuuri thinks absently), it would’ve died upon this statement, if the clatter of the Rusalka’s dropped spoon on the table were any indication. It was silence, save for the Gymnopédie No. 1 playing in Yuuri’s head, and the roiling emotions tumbling in the Rusalka’s.

“I admire your strength, and I’m sorry for your loss.” The solemn tone is spoken with sincerity, and Yuuri can recognise the pale blue irises as they stare back at him, trying to press their sympathy with a straightforward sincerity Yuuri hadn’t seen in a while.

It made his heart twist, then melt as Makkachin came over with a whine, nudging on Yuuri’s thigh with big puppy eyes. “Thank you. He died before the Grand Prix Finals, and I regret not coming to see him until after I graduated from university, but it’s a comfort to know he died in his sleep.”

A gentle smile graces his features as loving memories popped up one by one, of the late toy poodle in his arms, nuzzling Yuuri awake for walks around Hasetsu, and yipping at his heels as he jogged through the town. “I no longer feel any pain over his death, just… a certain fondness that he was the best dog I could’ve asked for.”

Yuuri can’t see much else from the Rusalka’s blurry face, but the voice, tender and vulnerable, speaks volumes aside from the words being said. “Alright.”

They eat their borscht in comfortable silence, and enjoy some Prague cake Mikhail happened to leave last night, topped with white icing screaming _Congratulations_!

At Yuuri’s prodding, the Rusalka only replies an exasperated, “Honestly, Mikhail should stop. Just stop.”

They enjoy it with some red wine and boiled plums, known as smokva.

 

* * *

 

It is only by the third slice when the Rusalka finally points out, “That’s your third slice, Yuuri.”

 _That’s strange._ Yuuri thought he only ate one.

“Are you stress-eating, Yuuri?”

The sound of munching only continues as a woozy Yuuri is still trying to register what Rusalka means by stress-eating. _Eating is a pleasant activity, why should it ever be associated with stress?_

“Oh wow… I think the alcohol hit you hard.”

“There’s alcohol in here?”

“Judging by your slurs, yes. I only took a slice, so I’m not as affected. Perhaps Mikhail got the one where not only is the pastry part soaked in rum; the creams are laced in brandy! Bastard probably did it on purpose… хуй.”

“What’s that? Russian?”

“Yes, yes. You’ve had a little too much; let’s take you to bed.”

Yuuri, without so much as a complaint, squeals a “Whee~!” as the Rusalka lifts the smaller man into a princess carry, seemingly unaffected by the weight of the Japanese man.

It’s quick business as Yuuri is tucked into the bed, and when Yuuri begins to whine about his books, the Rusalka begrudgingly retrieves a few tomes from Yuuri’s cart in the library, to humour the other.

While Yuuri thumbs through the book, uncaring that it’s only to ogle a sketch of dragons in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, the alabaster man jogs in with a glass of water. “Drink it all before you sleep, or else you’ll feel a little terrible tomorrow.”

While wilful, the Rusalka finds Yuuri rather obedient as well, as he downs the glass before passing out.

 

* * *

 

 

Sighing, the pale figure, hair still managing to tumble out of his messy bun, puts the books aside before returning to the kitchen to clean up and wash dishes. Turning the lights out, he washes the dishes in near-darkness with little trouble, as Makkachin sits next to him.

When finished, he dries his hands and walks up the foyer to his room, locking the door after the poodle follows him in.

Minutes later, the splashes of water echo dimly beyond the wooden barricade, lasting through the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anybody curious about the Plisetsky's?


End file.
